


thought I knew what I wanted, I never saw you comin'

by skyscraperblue



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Blow Jobs, EJ is in the NHL and Dylan is not, M/M, expensive books as a form of courting, my apologies to Davo for how I treated him here, past Dylan/Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22978408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyscraperblue/pseuds/skyscraperblue
Summary: Sometimes, you break up with your long term boyfriend, go to grad school in Denver, and find yourself looking for a sugar daddy.Sometimes, you find yourself the lone single one watching your whole team fall in love and get married and have babies, and you hear about a website for people wanting a sugar daddy and you think, why not.
Relationships: Dylan Strome/Erik Johnson
Comments: 42
Kudos: 434
Collections: The Dylan Strome Celebration 2020





	thought I knew what I wanted, I never saw you comin'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lotts (LottieAnna)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/gifts).

> Lotts, my dear, I hope so very much that this does your prompts justice and makes you happy. It was an absolute joy to write, even though it grew into something much longer than I expected and I ended up very sleep-deprived trying to finish it in time. 
> 
> Thank you to Abby, TJ, and R for the beta, and hockey twitter as always for your infinite support <3
> 
> Title from "Girls Your Age" by Transviolet.

EJ never intended to be the kind of person who ends up on a website like this.

He always knew it would be impossible, actually dating as a gay man in the NHL. He just figured - hockey was worth it. Hockey would be worth anything. Professional careers in this sport are so short anyway, he’d be a fool not to throw everything he’s got into it, and whatever kind of relationship he’s going to have can come later. Preferably he’ll add a wedding ring to a hand that already has a Cup ring, and everything will feel worth it.

But he's thirty-one now. He's thirty-one years old, and all his boys are pairing off one by one. Gabe has a _baby_, for Christ’s sake. Gabe has a beautiful blonde wife and a beautiful blonde baby and a beautiful condo to put them in. And EJ’s always known he’s not Gabe, and has never really tried to be, but it stings a little. They grew up together on this team, in this city, and Gabe still feels like his rookie sometimes even though EJ wasn’t too far from being a rookie too, and yet Gabe’s got the wedding ring and the baby seat in the car and the annual Christmas card with three faces on it and EJ’s still — just EJ. Same old EJ, same nonsense, same pranks, same low-buttoned shirts that give the media team palpitations, same ridiculous gap-toothed smile because he refuses to admit to vanity when Gabe is _right there_ looking like _that_ Same bachelor status, which he’s got plenty of practice making jokes about.- he convinced Cale Makar for three solid days that he was actually in a “deep spiritual union” with one of his horses, until Sammy took pity and told Cale he was bullshitting. 

It’s started to feel -- stale. He's always been perfectly happy with his life, but watching his friends’ lives get filled up with girlfriends and wives and babies and houses in the suburbs he can’t help but see all the places in his life that feel hollow, that feel a little bit too empty. At the end of the day, and much as he hates - _hates_ with a burning fury - to admit it, he’s… lonely.

He heard about this site from Josty, who had a friend in college that went on it, and at first he laughed along with everyone else at the stories he told. But later, sitting on his couch alone in his silent apartment, he couldn’t help but wonder about it. He feels like it would be super skeevy, probably - only weird old men go on those kind of sites, surely. Although — Josty’s friend had said there were actually some regular guys on there, guys who’d just been really busy businesspeople that didn’t have any time to date and wanted someone to come home to, someone to warm their bed sometimes, someone they could buy expensive gifts for and watch them smile opening the packages, someone to talk to and take to fancy restaurants and on expensive holidays. 

EJ has plenty of money. God, he has too much money, and he’s never really known what to do with it. He sinks a lot of it into looking after his horses, sure, but he’s been playing hockey a long time and he’s never really gone in for the stacks of designer clothes and garage full of cars thing. He’s got money. And… the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks: why not at least _look_ at the website? If he hates it, he hates it, and then he can put this whole godforsaken idea out of his head and go back to harrassing the media team and pulling absurd pranks on rookies. But if he doesn’t— well.

\---

Dylan kicks open the door of his tiny apartment and kicks his shoes into the corner, flings his backpack after them. He flops down on the couch and lets himself go limp, exhaustion tugging his eyelids closed. 

Goddamn. He knew grad school wasn't exactly going to be a piece of cake, but _fuck_ He feels tired all over, right down to his pinky fingernails, to the ends of his eyelashes. He had two long classes today - “seminars”, really, full of his extremely pretentious classmates who seem to have read not only all the reading list already but also everything else that could be even tangentially related to the reading list, and want to talk about it at high volume for several minutes without, apparently, so much as pausing for breath. He spent several gruelling hours at the library in between, gulping down a Red Bull and trying to conjure a convincing argument for his Early Romantic Literature paper. And all of this, of course, on top of his café shift this morning, which started at an hour that should be illegal and had required him setting an alarm for _four fucking thirty_, a time he would rather pretend didn’t exist at all but which he instead had to spend wiping tables and making borderline-undrinkable espressos for harried businessmen who apparently would just expire on the spot if it took Dylan more than fourteen seconds to make their order. 

He sighs, drags himself to a more-or-less upright sitting position, and fumbles for the TV remote. When he presses the on button it automatically turns to SportsCenter, which is playing hockey highlights from last night. Dylan sees a flash of Oilers blue and orange, grimaces, and hurriedly flicks it over to Netflix. 

He’s not bitter. He's told everyone and their mother about how not-bitter he is, actually. Sometimes, you meet a boy in midget hockey and he becomes your best friend, and you stay best friends even when you quit hockey and he gets far more serious about it, and you finally kiss him when he’s home on a rare weekend off from his junior hockey team, and he convinces you to go to college in Edmonton so you can be with him. And then the whole thing sort of slides sideways into this bitter game of constantly missing each other even though you live in the same city, and realising that no matter what he says he really has no intention of coming out, and watching him go on nights out with his teammates and flirt with girls “as a cover, Dylan, you know I have to be seen doing that kind of thing”. And one night halfway through senior year you wait to surprise him at his apartment after a game and he stumbles in hours later and isn’t alone, and you take one look at the perfect-WAG-material tiny blonde girl he’s with and don’t even say anything, you just go back to your dorm room and apply to any grad school you can find that’s over a thousand miles from Edmonton. 

Sometimes that’s just how it goes. He doesn’t want to be bitter. He wasted so much time - _so much_ goddamn time - chasing Connor across Canada and watching a whole city fall in love with him while Dylan hid in his dorm room and pretended they barely knew each other, and he’s damn sick of pouring his feelings into the black hole that is Connor McDavid. So he does his best to just… never go there. He deleted the NHL app and sold his McDavid jersey on eBay and he changes the channel any time the Oilers are playing and he pours all his energy into working, working, working.

Now he's sitting on his couch idly scrolling through Netflix and thinking about something one of the guys in his Shakespeare seminar was talking about. At the start of the semester he was always complaining about being broke, living off Top Ramen and drip coffee, working some terrible graveyard-shift job at the King Soopers on Chestnut Place. The complaining tapered off, and next thing they all knew he was rolling in with fancy Starbucks every morning wearing a series of very expensive-looking sweaters. Eventually someone made a crack about how King Soopers must really be investing in their overnight cashier staff, and the guy had grinned at them like he knew something they didn’t. 

He told them about it eventually, when they ended up at one of the bars near campus after a truly dismal midterm that they collectively agreed they needed to wipe from their memories via alcohol. He told them - in a nonchalant tone, but the kind of nonchalant tone people use when they know you’re going to be shocked and want to seem like _they_ don’t know what’s so shocking about it, they’re so _chill_ about it - that he’d gone on a website for wannabe sugar babies and got himself a sugar daddy. This guy, he said, mostly just wanted someone to take to dinner and tell long boring stories about his job in hedge fund management, and occasionally have someone to kiss goodnight. 

“I mean, we do have sex, sometimes," the guy had said, and laughed at their horrified faces. “He’s actually not bad. I think he was always just really shy and didn’t know how to make a move with anyone, you know? But he’s not super old, and he’s not, like, hideously ugly or something. And he doesn’t wanna do any weird shit. And he pays my tuition _and_ my rent, so.” 

Dylan hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. He fucking _hates_ the café, thinks he’d give almost anything to not have another triple-shot latte order hissed at him by a businessman who’s on the phone at the same time and looks at Dylan like he’s scum on the bottom of his shoe. And sure, he’s not the hottest guy in the world, maybe, but he’s tall and broad and has the kind of hair Connor always told him was “made for pulling”, and he can be funny, and he’s sure he could listen to some boring business stories if he was eating expensive food at the same time. And hey, he’s good at sex, and likes it. And some tiny, dark part of him thinks that it sounds a lot like what he had with Connor without the money - god knows he felt like Connor’s dirty little secret at times, and this way he’d already know in advance what he was getting into, and he’d be making bank at the same time. And hey, there’s nothing wrong with just making an account, right? He doesn’t have to actually do anything with the guys, if he doesn’t like them or they seem sketchy. He doesn’t even have to meet up with them, if he doesn’t want to.

He thinks again about the 4.30am alarm he’s going to have to set for his café shift tomorrow, and pulls his laptop out of his backpack.

\---

EJ’s scrolled through the website a couple of times now, when he comes home after practice - it’s mid November and if they have afternoon practice he often comes home in the dark, and sometimes his apartment feels so big and cold and empty when he gets in that he pulls out his laptop without really even realising what he’s going to do. 

Today they had morning practice, but there’s no game tonight or tomorrow and Gabe wanted to do a “team lunch”. EJ, nostalgic for the days when “team lunch” and no game the next day meant an all-day affair that ended with them stumbling into Ubers at two in the morning, ordered a beer with lunch; but Gabe had to go home to his baby, and Nate told his girlfriend he’d meet her for dinner, and even Sam and Cale head out early to take Sam’s dog to the dog park with Sam’s girlfriend. EJ wanders home, just slightly tipsy enough to be melancholy, and without even really thinking about it he finds himself laying on the couch with the website open and another beer sweating on the coffee table. 

He’s seen it enough times now that he’s fairly sure he’s seen everyone who fits his criteria - which really just boil down to “male and tall”, because he doesn’t really know what he wants or even _if_ he wants - but when he refreshes this time, there’s someone new at the top of the search results. 

“Dylan, 6'2, grad student" is broad-shouldered and dark-haired, with fluffy curls EJ immediately thinks would be nice to get his hands into, then feels weird for thinking so, and then feels weird for feeling weird - this is why he’s here, right? “Dylan” - EJ wonders how many guys use their real names on this thing - has a serious-looking mouth even though he’s smiling in the picture, and shadows under his eyes, and has made no fewer than four jokes in his bio about how he wants a job that leaves him less sleep deprived - “unless it’s in a fun way ;)”, which makes EJ choke on his beer a little bit. 

He never expected to actually see someone he might want to message on this site, never really thought he’d do anything with his account besides lazily scroll through profiles when he was sad and tipsy. But - this guy is cute, and his bio is funny, and - what can it hurt, right? 

EJ downs the rest of his beer in one swallow, and before he can think twice about it, clicks “Message Dylan” and types out, _Like your pictures. What kind of grad student are you?_

__

__

He sends it before he can second guess it, and then cringes when he remembers what he just wrote. Surely this is not how you come on to your — your — EJ doesn’t want to think _potential sugar baby_, but he guesses that’s what’s happening. He’s probably supposed to seem much more suave, or flirtier, or something. Worldly. 

_Worldly._ He sighs and goes to get a second beer.

When he comes back there's a new message blinking up at him from the screen. _Thanks ;) I’m doing English and Literary Arts. Lots of reading, slightly less than lots of job opportunities lol_

__

__

EJ sets the beer down carefully on the coffee table, then drags the laptop closer.

\---

Dylan was unsure, at first, when he got a message from this guy - _ER9229_, very anonymous - but they’ve been chatting, a little, and Dylan has to admit it hasn’t been… too weird. He’s answered as honestly as he can without, he hopes, giving away anything super personal that’s gonna make him the target of some kind of cybercrime or something, and the guy has been fairly forthcoming, if generic - he’s thirty-one, he’s got a job “in media” that means he travels a lot, he likes expensive steak dinners and going to the races. He sounds, if Dylan’s being honest, like some sort of obnoxious trust-fund bro, but hey, Dylan can pretend to know about horses if he has to. Dylan’s even tried to flirt, a little bit, and the guy’s seemed— interested, but not pushy. He’s surprised, honestly— he sort of expected, well, creepier behaviour, from guys on a website like this.

He’s not sure where to go from here. The last thing this guy had said to him had been something about a nice golf course he likes out near Boulder, and Dylan had made a dumb hole-in-one innuendo, and the guy had sent back a laughing emoji, then a winking one, and told Dylan he’d have to take him out there sometime and Dylan could “demonstrate in person”. 

Who makes the first move, on a sugar baby website? What even counts as a move? Surely Dylan isn’t expected to set up some kind of plan with this guy — he’s one thousand percent sure he couldn’t afford so much as a glass of water at the kind of restaurant it seems like this guy would want to go to, and doesn’t think he should be picking anyone up for any kind of date in his 2002 Toyota with the busted heater. 

As if on cue, his phone beeps, and he looks down. The guy — God, Dylan’s going to have to get an actual name out of him, even if it’s fake, just so he has something he can _say_ \- has sent:

_I’d like to take you out. Are you free tomorrow night?_

_Take you out_, Dylan thinks. God, is he really going to do this? Is he actually, honestly going to go out with a guy from an actual sugar baby website? 

He wonders fleetingly what Connor would think. Would Connor judge him, would Connor think he was pathetic for doing something like this? Well, Connor doesn’t get to fucking say what he does with his life anymore, and Connor never understood about money anyway, not once he started getting used to his big league paychecks and buying custom made suits to fit in with the guys on the team. He looks at the back of his hand, where there’s an ugly red mark where he’d managed to burn himself on the milk steamer at five thirty this morning while a woman in a pantsuit sighed impatiently - and _loudly_ \- at the counter. Then he taps out, slowly and deliberately, _I’m free, and I’d love to._

When the following night rolls around, Dylan’s a giant bundle of nerves as he gets on the bus. The guy - _call me Erik_, he’d finally said - had offered to pick up Dylan at his dorm, but Dylan, half-remembering all the things he was told in freshman orientation about “safe use of social apps” that was blatantly a “how to use Tinder without dying” lecture, didn’t want his first meeting with this guy to be alone in a stranger’s car. So instead he’s taking the goddamned city bus, and then a _second_ city bus, because this place is way across town, in some bougie area he’s never had a single reason to visit before.

He’s wearing slacks and a collared shirt, because when he googled the restaurant it seemed super-fancy. These are actually the slacks he bought for job interviews back in Edmonton, before he was brought to the abrupt realisation that he wouldn’t be staying there to get a job after graduation, and this shirt dates back almost to high school and pulls uncomfortably when he raises his arms. He feels awkward, too big for his own body, and at this precise moment it seems laughably absurd that he would be anyone’s sugar baby. He catches sight of his reflection in the bus window, sees how his hair’s basically pretending he didn’t put any product in it whatsoever, regardless of the twenty minutes he spent prodding it at the mirror before he left, and for a moment is absolutely certain he should just get off at the next stop, call off this whole thing, and go back to the café where at least the people are equally terrible at all times, no matter what his hair looks like.

But he's almost there, and it's _one night_ One night, he tells himself, can’t be _that bad_ If the guy’s a creep or whatever, well, he’s been pretty careful on the “volunteering personal information” front, and he’s tall enough that most people can’t overpower him too easy, and he sure as hell isn’t likely to run into him again if this is the kind of area he’s in normally. And if it isn’t bad at all… well. 

The hostess gives him a very blatant up-and-down when he finally opens the restaurant door, but when he says he’s here to see “um, Erik, I guess?” she just nods and leads him right to the back of the restaurant. There’s a table set kind of apart from the others, in a little alcove of its own, and there’s a blonde man sitting there, who glances up and then stands quickly when he sees them approaching. 

“Dylan, right?" the man says, stretching out a hand to shake Dylan’s. “Nice to meet you.” 

Dylan just barely remembers to stretch his hand out and smile. He feels like he’s missed a step on the stairs. This is _not_ what he expected.

For one, this guy is _hot_ He's tall, a little taller even than Dylan, and all solid muscle, biceps straining his expensive-looking dress shirt and thighs filling out his pants in a way that makes Dylan want to get on his knees right here. He’s got floppy blonde hair falling over his forehead, and he’s gelled it a little but it still looks soft. 

The other thing is, he's clearly confident. Oh, sure, he looks a little nervous, but it’s just nervous — he’s not terrified, he’s not shy. He grins at Dylan and, although his smile is just as perfect and even as the rest of him, it’s also wide and almost goofy. It changes his whole face — he looks like mischief, like trouble. Dylan thinks he might really like to get into this kind of trouble, actually. Maybe this won’t go as badly as he was afraid it would.

\---

EJ felt like a nervous wreck driving to the restaurant. Dylan said not to pick him up, which EJ understands, but it meant he had plenty of time to psych himself out on the way here. What if he’s awkward? What if he comes across as creepy? What if _Dylan_ is creepy, clearly out for just money, not interested in anything other than a paycheck? 

He’s been sitting at the table and trying not to visibly twitch for almost ten minutes when the hostess leads someone to his table. He looks up to find Dylan, smiling but clearly nervous in a shirt that’s very obviously too small for him, and stands quickly to greet him. 

“Dylan, right? Nice to meet you," he says, shaking his hand, smiling as friendly as he can. Something in Dylan’s expression changes when he does so, and for a second he’s afraid he didn’t actually put his teeth in — he thought it was probably plenty to be someone’s potential sugar daddy, without being their potential sugar daddy with the _missing teeth_ — but then he realises Dylan actually looks calmer, more at ease. A wave of relief runs through EJ, and he pulls out Dylan’s chair with his hands barely shaking at all.

He sits down and studies Dylan as he picks up the menu and starts looking at it. He’s got brown curly hair that looks just as pullable in real life as it had in his profile pictures, and his face, EJ decides, is interesting — maybe not conventionally handsome as such, but the kind of face he wants to keep looking at. He’s also got deep shadows under his eyes, and EJ thinks again of that early morning café job he’s apparently been working and feels a flash of sympathy. 

He’s also clearly getting flustered with the menu. EJ wonders if he’s ever been to a restaurant like this. He had Nate, most likely of any of the team to get recognised these days, suggest somewhere nice but out of the way, where he’s least likely to have someone know who he is. So this restaurant is small and not glitzy the way some of the most popular fancy Denver restaurants are, but it’s still a really nice place, the kind of place EJ can’t imagine he could have afforded before he started making NHL money. He watches Dylan look up and down the columns on the menu again, a little frown between his eyebrows, and says on impulse, “Let me order for you.”

Dylan looks up sharply, and EJ feels stupid. “I mean — if you like.”

He wonders if he's being too pushy, but after a second Dylan smiles with relief and puts his menu down. “Thanks. I’ve got no idea what half the things on this menu are, to be honest.” 

EJ grins at him. "Places like this, I figure they think they can charge more if they put more words in the menu descriptions.” 

Dylan laughs, and it breaks some of the weird tension between them, lets EJ settle a little further back into his chair. “Solid business strategy,” Dylan says, and reaches for his water glass.

EJ watches him take a drink, lets his eyes follow as Dylan’s throat moves when he swallows, and finds, almost to his own surprise, that he’s attracted to Dylan. He thought it would be hard to find him hot in this situation, was afraid the weirdness and the stress and the awkwardness would drown it out, but no — if anything, that seems to be making it more intense, the awareness that they’re here for this reason, all of these things already potentially on the table. He looks at Dylan’s neck and wants to put his mouth on it, wants to strip him out of that ugly shirt and press him back against a wall, see what kind of sounds he’d make if EJ got a thigh between his legs. It’s a heady feeling, and EJ feels himself flush a little, fidgets with his own water glass as he asks Dylan about his grad school program.

\---

By the time the waitress clears away their dinner plates, Dylan’s surprised to find he’s actually having a nice time. Erik, apart from being unfairly, ridiculously attractive, is also hilarious, and has spent the whole of dinner alternating between making the kind of jokes that made Dylan snort water out his nose, and asking insightful questions about Dylan’s grad school program and his favourite books and his parents and growing up in Canada. It’s only when Erik ducks his head to look at the dessert menu and there’s a moment of silence that Dylan realises he doesn’t actually really know anything about Erik yet.

He clears his throat. "So, um. What is it that you do for work?”

Erik looks up at him sharply, and Dylan jumps a little in his seat. “You don’t know?” Erik says, eyes ever so slightly narrowed, face serious. 

Dylan feels flustered. Did Erik say more about it than he remembers? Was he supposed to have found out somehow? “Um, you — you said you work in media, but I don’t really — know much about that…” He trails off into silence, feeling genuinely awkward for the first time since he sat down, but Erik’s actually looking more pleased as he watches Dylan fumble for words. 

Erik gives another of those wide grins, eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry, it’s not a trick question. Just — some people would recognise me.” 

Dylan frowns. Maybe... "Are you on TV or something?”

Erik laughs, loud and bright. "In a manner of speaking. I’m not trying to be difficult, I just — can’t be too upfront about it on a website like the one where we met. That would be… awkward.” 

The best Dylan can come up with is _conservative Republican TV_, which — he looks at Erik’s shirt, which is open several more buttons than seems ‘conservative’ by any possible measure — doesn’t seem quite right.

Erik looks at him for a moment more, then seems to come to a decision. “I’m a hockey player. Professionally. I play for the Avalanche.” 

Dylan goes cold all over. This, he thinks distantly, would be the moment when somebody normal would add together the professional athlete body and the professional athlete paycheck and probably get a _lot_ more invested in proceedings. That’s probably what Erik expects. He’s vaguely aware his hands are shaking. A _hockey player_ What are the odds? He moved a thousand miles away to get away from one hockey player, only to end up eating dinner with another one. The universe has some fucking sense of humour, he thinks bitterly. 

“Dylan?" Erik's saying now, frowning at him, smile sliding off his face. “Are you okay?” 

Dylan clears his throat. "I, um -- I'm just gonna go to the bathroom real quick.” He’s up and out of his chair before Erik even has the chance to reply. 

Locked inside a bathroom stall, sitting on the closed toilet lid, he buries his face in his hands. The worst thing, he thinks with a humourless laugh, is that he genuinely _likes_ hockey. Even after he quit playing, he loved watching Connor, and he would stay up late to scream at NHL games on TV with Connor and his brothers any night they could get away with it. His bedroom back at his parents’ house has God knows how many Leafs posters in it, and a huge Sidney Crosby one, and a collection of old game ticket stubs that he’d covered a whole pinboard with. He loved going to the games — when he was a kid in Toronto and his parents would scrounge enough for nosebleed seats a couple times a season, when he was in Edmonton and Connor could get him free tickets right on the glass. He loved the smell of the rink, the sound of skates on ice, the way the whole building came alive with the goal horn. 

But that was then. He hasn't seen a game since he walked out of Connor’s apartment almost a year ago. Any time he thinks of hockey, he thinks of Connor’s bright eyes, the way he would diagram out plays with the salt and pepper shakers when they went out to dinner, the Oilers shirts he’d give Dylan to wear in his dorm when Connor was on roadies and Dylan was missing him. Hockey _hurts_ now, and Dylan can’t imagine any world where he’d be okay being another NHLer’s dirty little secret.

Except... 

He scrubs a hand through his hair and thinks about it some more. With Connor he spent all his time hoping, dreaming, wanting. He thought Connor was going to come out for him, he thought they’d eventually be together properly, that he’d meet Connor’s friends on the team and get to hold his hand in public. Every time Connor promised he’d do it soon, _so soon, Dylan, I swear,_ and then didn’t, it broke Dylan’s heart a little.

But Erik's not asking for that. Erik's asking for someone to have dinner with, and someone to greet him sometimes when he comes home, and — well, and someone to sleep with. And Erik wants to _pay_ for the privilege. 

It would be nice, Dylan thinks, to feel like he was walking into something with his eyes wide open for once. To have the whole situation laid out from day one, to always know his place and Erik’s place and the ways they would never, ever overlap. And to finally get something out of it — something _real_, not Connor’s endless empty promises and puppy-dog eyes but real numbers in his bank account. With Connor he always felt ten steps behind; he and Erik are at step one at the same time. He wants that.

He sighs, stands up, and goes back out to the dinner table.

\---

EJ lets out a huge sigh of relief when he sees Dylan walking back toward him, giving him a small smile. He’d really thought he fucked it up there — Dylan had been pissed he’d been lied to, felt like EJ was skeevy, was making a break for it out the bathroom window. But no, he’s sitting back down opposite EJ now.

“Sorry about that," he says, laughing sheepishly. “I wasn’t, um — I wasn’t expecting you to be a hockey player. Um, obviously. My — my ex played hockey. Kinda a sore point.” 

EJ winces. "Sorry." 

Dylan waves him off. "No, it doesn't matter. He’s my _ex_. Past tense.” Then Dylan smirks at him. “You, though, are very much present tense.” 

That smirk, EJ thinks, could get him on his knees, all on its own. “I like that.” 

“We should talk about what we want,” Dylan says abruptly.

EJ immediately thinks of several very dirty things he wants that he probably shouldn’t say in public, then realises Dylan’s talking about — about being a _sugar daddy_. And doing _sugar daddy things_. EJ feels awkward again, suddenly and blindingly. “Oh, of course,” he stutters out, and feels himself go red. God, surely he’s supposed to feel like the one in charge of this situation. Surely he’s not meant to be the one blushing at the dinner table.

Dylan smirks at him again from the other side of the table, and his eyes drop to EJ’s mouth for a long, tantalising moment. “I was just thinking — once we sort that out, we’re free to go somewhere more… private. You know?”

EJ chokes on nothing, finds himself nodding quickly. “Sure. Yes. Absolutely.”

EJ takes Dylan back to his apartment. He drove to the restaurant, so he gets the privilege of escorting Dylan into his very expensive car and then putting a hand high on Dylan’s thigh as he drives. 

Dylan’s quiet as they drive, scrolling through something on his phone, and EJ takes the chance to think for a second. They’d talked through what EJ supposes would be called an _arrangement_ — he’s going to pay Dylan’s grad school tuition, and buy him gifts, and give him some money for expenses, and Dylan’s going to be… well, like his boyfriend, more or less. Not a lot of public dates, because EJ really, _really_ doesn’t want anyone spotting him with some unknown grad student in intimate restaurants and asking questions, but a few times a week at EJ’s place, maybe a trip for bye week. And — sex. They hadn’t gotten super detailed — they’d established that neither of them were particularly kinky, and that EJ prefers to bottom, and beyond that they’d just kind of agreed to let it work itself out. 

EJ’s nervous about it, but not, weirdly, as nervous as he expected to be. Something about Dylan relaxes him, he thinks. He’s funny, and easy to talk to, and sweet and snarky by turns, and EJ finds with a jolt of surprise that he actually _likes_ him. Not just thinks he’s hot, but genuinely likes him, likes talking to him and being around him, likes how he laughs with his whole face when he finds one of EJ’s jokes funny. 

_/Calm down,_ he thinks firmly to himself. Dylan’s nice, and this is nice, and he’s excited about it — but Dylan’s also being paid to do this. He doesn’t want to start thinking it’s more than it is. 

When they get to EJ’s building, he herds Dylan into the elevator with a hand on the small of his back, and feels Dylan’s skin warm against his fingers through his shirt. It makes something in his stomach tense in anticipation. When he meets Dylan’s eyes, he sees a heat there too, an intensity, and he grins. This could be _real_ fun. 

\---

Erik lets Dylan in the door, busies himself hanging up their coats and pouring them glasses of water while Dylan walks around, admiring. He remembers Connor’s fancy NHL salary apartment, but it had both been in Edmonton, a hellhole of snow and darkness, and had suffered from Connor’s terrible, terrible taste. This place — this feels classy. Everything seems both clean and cosy, lots of grey fabric and white surfaces and tasteful abstract pictures on the walls. Erik’s evidently had the heat on while they were out, so it’s comfortably warm, especially after the crisp November night outside. Dylan likes it. 

He stops by one of the tall glass windows, looking out at Erik’s view of Denver. From up here it’s all just lights, stretching out into the distance, only the vaguest smoky shape of the Rockies behind. He tries to imagine living somewhere like this, alone. It’s beautiful, but it also feels very clear that nobody lives here but Erik. It’s lonely, somehow.

Erik interrupts his train of thought by coming to stand next to him and sliding two fingers down the outside of his forearm. “Everything okay?” he murmurs, and Dylan feels a shiver run down his spine at his tone, low and rich.

Dylan nods, turns a little so Erik's hand rests more firmly on his arm. He takes a deep breath. He knows he can do this, knows he _wants_ to do this, but actually taking the step is a little intimidating. He pulls in a deep breath, then turns right around and steps close into Erik’s space, meeting his eyes and pressing against his body until their mouths are barely an inch apart. He stays there, feels himself breathing heavier even though they haven’t done anything at all yet, and lets Erik come to him.

Erik closes the distance and presses a kiss against Dylan’s mouth. It’s tentative for a fleeting moment, then Dylan feels as Erik gives into it and it heats up quicker than he’s ever felt before. They press together, mouths moving against each other, and Dylan raises his arms to grip Erik’s waist, pressing his fingers in to feel the muscle beneath Erik’s shirt, needing to touch him, to feel the heat of him, to do something to satisfy the restless heat building under his skin. Erik makes a moaning sound deep in his throat and brings his hands up — one slides into Dylan’s hair and pulls, just a little, and Dylan groans, opening his mouth with it and feeling Erik’s tongue press urgently inside. Erik’s other hand moves to Dylan’s shirt buttons, struggling to open them, and Dylan feels hot all over, reaches for Erik’s belt and fights to open it without looking down, doesn’t want to break the kiss. 

Dylan finally gets Erik's belt open, fumbles the button on his slacks and is pressing a hand inside. He can’t seem to move fast enough, his own desire crashing over him like a wave, fast and surprising and unstoppable. He reaches in and finally, finally wraps a hand around Erik’s cock and Erik groans into his mouth, digs teeth into Dylan’s lip, fingernails into his shoulders where he’s finally managed to push Dylan’s shirt off. 

Dylan wants about eight different things, and that’s just the ones he can think of with his brain feeling fuzzy with arousal. He wavers for a moment, torn, then drops to his knees, right there at Erik’s goddamn picture windows. 

“Oh _fuck_, Dylan," Erik swears above him, threads two hands into Dylan’s hair and tugs just a little. Dylan feels it through his whole body, has to press a hand against the base of his dick to get some relief as he takes Erik into his mouth. 

Erik’s big, but Dylan has always loved sucking cock and he can take it easily, relaxing his throat and letting Erik push inside him. Above him, Erik’s swearing rapid and loud, and Dylan reaches up and presses on Erik’s hands in his hair, trying to tell him without having to pull off that he wants Erik to fuck his face. 

Erik’s gasping above him but seems to get the memo, pushing forward and holding Dylan in place by his hair. It’s that perfect pain-pleasure that Dylan loves so much, making him feel wild, pressing forward to take Erik even as it leaves him halfway to choking, wanting more and more and more. He’s full of wanting it even as it’s already happening, sucking hard on Erik’s cock, moaning around it as Erik pulls his hair to position him right where he wants him, the vibrations of it making Erik’s legs start to shake. 

“Dylan, I'm gonna -- I can't ---" Erik’s panting out above him, letting go of his hair as if to let Dylan pull back, but Dylan just moans again and presses closer, refusing to move, and Erik realises what he wants and swears viciously. One, two seconds more, then Erik’s coming hot down Dylan’s throat and Dylan’s swallowing through it. 

When Erik's finished he pulls Dylan to his feet, both of them panting, a sheen of sweat across Erik’s forehead. Erik presses close to kiss him without any hesitation, biting at his lower lip, and Dylan gasps. He fumbles to get his own pants open, feeling desperate with it, and then Erik’s knocking his hands away and opening his slacks, reaching in and touching him. Dylan just leans his forehead on Erik’s shoulder, teeth biting into the muscle as Erik jacks him quick and hot, finally losing it and coming into Erik’s hand with a groan, leaving teeth marks on Erik’s collarbone that will probably bruise. 

Dylan stays there for a moment, face pressed into Erik’s chest, breathing heavy, coming down. He takes stock, waiting for the part of him that’s about to start feeling grossed out at what, technically, is sex he’s being paid for. But he never seems to quite get there: it was hot, and he had fun, and he wanted to do it, and he can’t find a part of him that regrets it. He pulls back enough to meet Erik in the eye, finds Erik grinning down at him. 

“Shower?" Erik suggests, and Dylan grins back and nods, lets Erik take his hand and lead him down the hall.

\---

A couple of days after their first date — can he call it a date, EJ wonders, and then decides not to think too hard about it — the team just has a morning practice and nothing else, so he’s free to do as he pleases from noon. He pulls out his phone while he’s scrubbing his hair dry in the locker room. 

_Dinner tonight? My apartment?_

His phone buzzes almost immediately. _Sure thing. 7pm?_

_Perfect_, EJ sends back, and goes to hit the grocery store.

When Dylan buzzes his apartment at 6.59pm, EJ’s squinting at a pan of chicken on the stove that looks suspiciously more black than he thinks it’s supposed to be at this stage. He sighs when he hears the bell, turns the stove off under the chicken pan, and goes to let Dylan in.

Dylan’s wearing a big puffy coat and looks like nothing so much as a giant marshmallow. He laughs when EJ says so, but blushes too, and between wondering what else he can do to make Dylan flush red like that, EJ resolves to buy him a new coat, a nicer one. He takes the coat off, hangs it up by the door, and comes to peer over EJ’s shoulder at the chicken.

“Is it supposed to be that... um, burnt?” Dylan says tentatively as EJ pokes it with the spatula.

EJ sighs. "No, I don't think so. I've always been useless at anything that isn’t grilling steaks.” 

Dylan wrinkles up his nose as the chicken hisses in the pan. Parts of it are looking _really_ burnt at this point, EJ thinks. 

“Ugh, nevermind," EJ decides, moving the pan off the stove entirely. “Let’s order in. Here, let me get you a drink.” 

He hands Dylan a glass of wine and goes to call the Italian place on the corner, the one he always orders from when he wants to make the rookies think he has his shit together but doesn’t want to actually go to the effort of leaving his apartment or putting on shoes to do so. When he gets off the phone and wanders out to the living room, he finds Dylan, wine glass in hand, looking at EJ’s collection of team photos from over the years, all lined up in a neat row on one wall. 

EJ wanders over to stand beside him. He says nothing, waiting, and is rewarded when Dylan says, “What’s it like?” 

He turns his head Dylan's way. "What's what like?”

Dylan gestures with his wine glass. "This. _Living the dream._ What’s it like? To actually do it, I mean?”

“Pretty fucking great,” EJ says honestly, and shrugs. “I mean, I basically play games for a living, and they give me a shit ton of money for it and I get to spend the summer bumming around doing whatever I want for two months.” 

Dylan tilts a head, considering the pictures again. “Yeah, I guess.” 

EJ thinks about it for another minute. He loves hockey, always has, always will, but Dylan did ask. “It’s sometimes lonely,” EJ says quietly. 

Beside him, Dylan's hands twitch in surprise. “But you’ve got all these people doing it with you,” he says, waving at the team pictures again.

EJ shrugs. "Yeah, but it's never the same people in two pictures. People get traded and injured and they retire and they sign somewhere else. And everyone that’s still around — well.” Erik doesn’t want to come across as some bitter old bachelor, so he just says, “Lots of them have families and stuff now, so we don’t — we don’t really hang out like we used to.” 

Dylan nods, hums under his breath. EJ feels the quiet stretching out between them, tense and elastic. He doesn’t want to be standing here talking about all the things he doesn’t have. He wants to take advantage of what he _does_ have, standing here in his living room with a wine glass in hand. 

He reaches one hand over, carefully, deliberately, and runs it down Dylan’s back, letting it come to rest just above the curve of his ass. Dylan jerks at the touch, then turns to EJ, a laugh in his eyes. “We’ve got food on the way,” he says lightly. 

EJ shrugs, gives him a full-mouthed smile. Dylan starts a little, and EJ realises he’d forgotten to put his teeth in. Oh well. Not like he’s ever been any good at wearing them anyway, and Dylan said he’d been with a hockey player before, he must know how it goes. Still, he’s a little nervous, feels his smile fading, until Dylan snorts and says, “That make it easier to use your mouth, huh? Less teeth in the way?”

EJ lets out a raucous laugh and tugs Dylan close to him, taking the wine glass from his hand and setting it down on the coffee table. “Let me show you, huh? We’ve got time.” 

EJ gets Dylan spread out on his couch, white-knuckle grip in the cushions as he comes hot down EJ’s throat, barely half a minute before the delivery guy rings EJ’s buzzer. EJ feels extremely satisfied with himself. Who needs a perfect blonde wife? He’s doing just fine.

\---

Halfway into December finds Dylan letting himself into Erik’s with the spare key. Erik’s taken to giving it to him when he’s going on road trips, so Dylan can be in his bed when he gets back. At first Dylan thought it was a sex thing — and sure, they sometimes have spectacular sex when Erik tumbles into bed still buzzing with the adrenaline of a successful game earlier in the day — but it seems to be more about the apartment not being empty. Well, Dylan thinks, Erik’s just paid Dylan’s tuition for the whole year; if he wants someone to turn the lights on and warm up the bed before he gets home, Dylan can do that.

Erik’s due home in a half hour, maybe less. He’s getting back from three gruelling games in New York, two outright losses and one scrappy game that turned into a shootout win — not that Dylan watched them, of course, but he’s taken to Googling the game results after Erik plays them, so he knows. This time Dylan’s fairly sure he’s going to be pissy when he gets back. Dylan thinks about Erik’s face when he’s upset and trying not to show it, how his mouth thins into a narrow line, the hollows under his eyes, and wants to do whatever he can to make that easier.

He turns the lights on, then thinks about it and turns half of them back off again, leaving the living room warm and soft in the dim glow of a couple of lamps. He considers the time; it’s not late, really, almost nine, and Erik’s unlikely to just want to go to bed. He goes to the kitchen and sets water heating for that ridiculously expensive tea Erik’s very particular about drinking and flatly refuses to be made fun of for drinking; then he fishes out the takeout menu for that nice Italian place Erik had ordered from before. 

Then he reaches into his wallet and slowly, carefully, takes out the credit card Erik had given him the week before. Erik had handed it over almost carelessly, across the kitchen counter while he made coffee before Dylan went to class and Erik went to practice. Dylan had gaped at him, mouth open like a giant fluffy-haired fish, ready to protest — it’s one of those super fancy cards, shiny gold plastic, and Dylan knows what that means about what he could do with it — but Erik waves him off. “Sometimes you’ll need things and I’ll be on roadies,” he shrugs. “I don’t care. This is easier.” 

Looking at it now, Dylan's head spins a little at the difference between their lives; this card alone, even without any of the tuition payments or the expensive presents or anything else Erik’s done for him, could change his entire life, and Erik had pretty much thrown it at him like it was a casual convenience on the level of giving someone change for the parking meter.

Well, he thinks. Erik told him to use it for whatever he wanted. He can damn well use it for Erik, if that’s what he wants.

\---

EJ is, frankly, exhausted. He aches all over, one shoulder still throbbing from a hit he took last night that left a monster bruise purpling all across his shoulderblade, and he feels so tired he’s almost dizzy with it. He fumbles his keys trying to put them in his front door lock, hopes against hope Dylan’s here and he can flop into bed with him and sleep for sixteen straight hours.

He makes it in the door and drops his suitcase right there in the entryway, kicking his dress shoes off next to it carelessly enough that they bounce off the wall. He wanders toward the living room, scrubbing a hand through his hair and wondering idly if Nate would find out and kill him if he ordered pizza. “Dylan? Are you in h—“ 

EJ freezes in the doorway when he sees the room. The lights are on low, so the whole room is lit with this hazy glow that makes it seem so warm. There’s food set out on the coffee table — EJ squints at it and realises it’s his order from the Italian place — and Dylan’s looking up at him from a nest of blankets on the couch with a hopeful smile on his face.

“What—" EJ's voice comes out rough and he clears his throat and tries again. “What’s going on?”

Dylan looks sheepishly down at his own hands. “Well, you know. I saw how the road trip went. I thought you’d like something nice to come home to.”

EJ feels -- flattened. He feels like he doesn’t even understand what’s happening. “I—“ 

Dylan’s face is starting to fall, now, and no, that’s _definitely_ not what EJ wants. “If you don’t like it or you wanna be alone or — or anything, I can just—“ He makes half a motion to get up from the couch and EJ rushes over, puts his hands on Dylan’s shoulders to stop him moving. 

“No, don't leave," EJ blurts out. "No, this is — this is great.” Dylan still looks unsure, but it fades as EJ smiles big and wide at him. 

Dylan pulls the plates of food over and passes one to EJ, smiling a little satisfied smile, and starts scrolling through Netflix looking for something for them to watch. EJ tunes out Dylan’s commentary on various movies and just watches him, instead; the soft glow of the lamps on his face makes him look like he’s lit up from the inside, hair curling over his forehead, eyes shining in the reflected light. Some part of EJ wants to reach out a hand and just touch Dylan’s skin, just wrap an arm around him for no reason other than to feel his warmth against him.

EJ has to shake himself, then, remind himself what’s happening. _Don’t you start thinking this is more than it is,_ he tells himself. _You know why he’s here. You pay for this. He’s a thoughtful person, but he’s here for his paycheck._

But when Dylan looks over at EJ with that little smile on his face to ask about his movie choice, EJ feels something twist in his chest anyway.

\---

Dylan goes home for Christmas for the first time in years, courtesy of Erik’s credit card. He spends almost a week lying on the basement couch with his brothers, wrestling them for the Xbox controller and eating his mom’s Christmas cookies. He texts with Erik, a little — sends him pictures of the Toronto snow and his brothers in their dorky Christmas sweaters, gets back long complaints about Erik’s family and pictures of a little dog, apparently Erik’s mom’s, in a Santa hat. It’s — nice, Dylan thinks. It’s nice, to have someone to text, someone who answers his messages. It feels — uncomplicated, being with Erik. Dylan thinks about how funny that is, sometimes, because it sure is a more complicated situation than any he’s really been in before. But they send nice messages, and they laugh a lot when they’re together, and Dylan doesn’t have to wonder where they stand with each other.

The day after Christmas, the doorbell rings. Dylan’s half-watching a movie with Matt in the living room while he texts Erik terrible memes, so his mom answers the door; a moment later she’s calling, “Dylan! Something came for you!” 

Dylan frowns and levers himself up off the couch with a groan. “You’re getting old,” Matt crows at him, and Dylan throws a cushion at him on his way out the door. 

“What is it?" Dylan says, wandering into the kitchen where his mom has put a big box on the countertop. 

She shrugs. "I don't know, sweetheart, it was some courier service. Said it was supposed to be delivered yesterday but there was a mix-up at the delivery centre. Maybe someone’s sent you a gift?”

Dylan eyes the box. "Maybe." 

“Do you think it's from Edmonton?" his mom asks carefully. 

Dylan sighs, shakes his head. "I doubt it.” His mom, who watched him come home from Edmonton so broken up he barely left his bed for weeks, is always very careful when she enquires about Connor, but she also knew Connor for years and years and every so often she gets her hopes up about him. Dylan doesn’t want to hurt her by telling her in explicit detail how they ended, but this is the sometimes-unpleasant consequence of that. Another way Connor screwed him up, he supposes.

He pushes the thoughts to the back of his head and goes to get a knife to open the box. His mom watches curiously as he cuts through the packing tape and fishes through the packing pellets. There’s something at the bottom, hard and solid when his fingers find it; he pulls it out and gasps aloud.

A couple of weeks ago, he'd come to Erik’s apartment straight from his History of Genre seminar. They’d been reading Yeats, and he’d gone on and on at Erik about how beautiful and fascinating he thought Yeats’ writing was and how much he’d loved it, all the time Erik had made dinner, all through eating it, right up until Erik had reeled him in for a kiss and shut him up. He’d thought even at the time that he must be boring Erik, but Erik just looked interested the whole time, asking clever questions, listening to what Dylan said. Erik had asked if Yeats was Dylan’s favourite; Dylan had said yes, offhand. He’d forgotten the whole conversation until just now.

In the box is a copy of Yeats’ _Early Poems and Stories_. It looks old even before Dylan takes it out to look at it properly — brown paper board covers, a cloth spine, title card written out in old-fashioned font. It feels delicate in his hands, vulnerable, and he touches it reverently. When he leafs open the first page to see when it was published, he almost drops the book on his foot, because that’s a _signature_, right there inside the cover, on the title page, _WB Yeats_ scratched out in barely-legible thick black fountain pen. 

Dylan’s mom is talking, he's vaguely aware, but he can’t even hear her. He knows where this came from; there’s only one person with both the knowledge to choose this and the money to pay for it. It feels absurd, surreal. That Erik bought him an expensive present is besides the point — he had to be really paying attention to buy this one. Dylan images Erik searching rare books websites for this, or maybe calling dealers about it, and feels his stomach clench. This — it’s _sweet_. It’s such a genuinely kind, sweet thing to do, and Dylan feels such deep affection for Erik in that moment he doesn’t know where to put it, what to do with it. 

/Don’t get attached, he thinks desperately to himself, _don’t read into this_, but some sinful part of his heart is tripping over itself looking at the book in his hands.

\---

The Avs are due to fly to Edmonton in the second week of January. It’s a one-and-done, flying out there the evening before the game and back home on a sickeningly late flight straight from the arena. EJ hates trips like this — so much work and effort, so much time taken up, for the sake of one single game. He’s packing and whining to Dylan about it the afternoon he’s due to leave. Dylan’s curled up under the bedcovers, looking soft-eyed and well-fucked with Erik’s nail marks all down his back from an afternoon in bed, just the top of his fluffy hair sticking out the top of the covers. 

“I don't wanna fly all the way to fucking Edmonton, in fucking January,” EJ bitches, throwing a belt and an extra pair of shoes into his suitcase. “It’s gonna be like flying to Antarctica. Minus a billion degrees.” Dylan makes a sleepy noise of assent and snuggles deeper into the pillow. “And we’re gonna get our asses handed to us, I can’t even fucking pretend we won’t.” This time Dylan’s wordless sound is one of disagreement, and EJ laughs at him. “It’s not even me being pessimistic, it’s Connor fucking McDavid.” Dylan says nothing, so EJ goes on, “He’s on some absurd point streak, twelve goddamn games or something, he’s beating everyone right now. Half our damn team’s hurt, and this fucking kid is running rings around the whole league—“ 

Dylan’s being eerily silent. EJ wonders if he’s fallen asleep. “Dylan?” he says carefully, reaching out to prod the lump of Dylan’s body under the covers with the end of the coat hanger he’s holding. 

Dylan does nothing. 

"C'mon, you get to stay in this bed while I go to the damn tundra, at least listen to me complain about it without falling asleep on me,” EJ says, and reaches over to tug the blankets off Dylan’s face, ready to tickle him awake.

But — Dylan's not asleep. Instead, he’s got his eyes tightly scrunched closed, hands shaking where they’re balled up in the sheet in front of his face. 

EJ’s heart feels like it falls right out of his chest, and he’s on his knees by the bed in a second, reaching out hesitantly. “Dylan?” 

When he touches a palm against Dylan's hands Dylan’s whole body jerks, and his eyes fly open. He looks — almost scared, EJ thinks. “Dylan, what’s wrong?” EJ says, moving his hand slowly, slowly, up to rest on Dylan’s shoulder. 

Dylan shakes his head mutely.

“Dylan, c'mon, I wanna help you," EJ says, running a thumb over Dylan’s bare shoulder. He can’t imagine what could have got Dylan so worked up; whatever it is, he wants to go to war against it, feels with a sudden violent intensity that anything that makes Dylan feel like this just can’t be allowed.

Dylan’s eyes flutter closed at the touch, and the frown between his eyebrows eases ever so slightly. He says, voice so low he’s barely even whispering, “I need to tell you something.” 

EJ frowns at him. "What, then? What is it?”

Dylan struggles out from under EJ's hand, scoots back to sit with his back to the headboard, knees pulled up tightly to his chest. EJ looks at him sideways, but settles on the bed next to him, rests a hand lightly on his ankle, trying to communicate, _I’m here_. 

“You’re gonna -- god, you're probably gonna be mad,” Dylan says, with a faint, humourless laugh. 

“I won't," EJ promises, and he means it, too; looking at Dylan, paler than EJ’s ever seen him, he can’t imagine being mad at him, can’t imagine wanting to do anything other than wrap him up and keep him close, keep him safe.

Some part of his brain is valiantly trying to remind him about all the times he’s told himself to _be rational about this, be sensible, don’t get too attached_. He’s ignoring it.

“Um…” Dylan rubs a hand over the back of his neck, almost like he’s embarrassed. “D’you… well. D’you remember me saying my ex played hockey?”

EJ nods, confused. 

“Well, um. It's not that it's not true or anything! But I maybe, um, could have said a bit… more about that.” 

EJ feels like he couldn’t guess where this was going if you offered him a billion dollars. He just stays silent, waiting.

Dylan draws in a breath, then lets it all out in one big rush. “It’s Connor McDavid,” he says quickly, and then leans forward to hide his face in his knees.

EJ — EJ doesn't know what to do with that. “Wait, _what_? Your ex is — you used to _date Connor McDavid?_”

“Yeah." Dylan sounds resigned, now. "I moved to Edmonton to be with him.” 

EJ shakes his head, hard. He can't seem to make the universe fall into any kind of order, feels like he’s been stumbling along blindly in the dark this whole time. “How — I mean — what happened?”

Dylan looks up at EJ, half surprised. “You’re not mad?”

EJ laughs. "I have no idea what I am,” he says. “I guess when I asked you that time if you knew much about the NHL I was kinda off base, huh.” He feels stupid. But at the same time — he remembers Dylan’s face, back at their very first dinner, when he’d said he was a hockey player and Dylan had disappeared to the bathroom, looking like he’d seen a ghost. However it went down with Connor, it must not have been good.

Dylan shrugs. "I don't — I stopped watching, and everything, after we — after it ended.” 

“What happened?" Erik says again, softly.

“He told me at first he wanted to come out,” Dylan says. His voice is so, so quiet. “He said we were gonna be together forever, he’d do anything for me, tell his team, tell his coaches, tell whoever. Then he kept finding reasons not to do it. And it was so dumb, because I’d always told him I just wanted us to be together, I didn’t even care about the coming out stuff, I just wanted to _be_ with him. But he — he kept blowing me off, to go on all these ‘team bonding nights’.” Dylan raises one hand to do air quotes, hint of a bitter smile on his face. “He told me he had to do it or people would guess, they’d figure things out. Used to flirt with girls on these nights, just for the look of things, he said.” Dylan shakes his head. “I was so _stupid_. I wanted to surprise him at his apartment after a game. I thought it would be nice, you know? But — he came in with this girl, already had his — his hand on her ass, her lipstick all over his face—“ Dylan breaks off, looks away.

EJ looks at Dylan and his heart aches. To follow someone across the country, to give them everything, and to have them do that to you — and this is _Dylan_. How could anyone have Dylan in their life, Dylan’s goofy laugh and fluffy hair and silly sarcastic sense of humour and perfect, perfect smile, and throw that away? 

EJ reaches out tentatively, and when Dylan doesn’t stop him, pulls Dylan into his arms. Dylan’s sniffling, just a little, and EJ holds him tight, wraps his arms tight around him and presses his face into Dylan’s hair. He’s never been good at what to say when people are hurting, but he can do this, he can be here. He can hold Dylan like he’s something precious, because he is.

\---

The next evening, Dylan's wandering around Erik’s apartment, feeling restless. Erik and Connor are in the same city right now, he keeps thinking. The same city, the same _arena_ He can’t seem to comprehend it properly — Erik, _his_ Erik, with all his terrible hilarious stories about pranks he’s pulled on rookies, Erik who buys him rare poetry books for Christmas, alongside Connor, Connor who ripped Dylan’s heart out and shredded it like it was ice under his skates. 

He can't seem to settle at anything. He gets half a mind to cook dinner, gets as far as taking out all the pans and ingredients and spices and then gives up, shoves it all to the end of the countertop and calls for pizza instead. He scrolls through Netflix, can’t find anything that seems even vaguely interesting, watches ten minutes of some cop drama and turns it off. He even thinks about jacking off, but it feels weird and lonely to get off in Erik’s bed without Erik here to pull his hair and whisper filthy things in his ear.

Eventually, he sighs and flops down in front of the TV. It won’t hurt, he reckons, to just turn on the game for the first few minutes. _One_ minute, even. He can always turn it off if he hates it. 

He finds it playing, turns it down so he doesn’t have to listen to the inane commentary. It’s only a minute into the first period, zero-zero on the board, not much of anything happening. 

_This isn't so bad_, Dylan thinks. He snuggles back into the cushions, pulls his pizza closer.

It’s weird, the first time he sees Connor on the screen, but not as weird as he thought it would be. For one thing, from this angle he’s just a blue-and-orange blur, but it also just — hurts less. For the first time, Dylan realises, what happened with Connor feels far away. He thinks about it and it’s sad, but it doesn’t have that same bone-deep vicious pain that’s always hit him like a freight train whenever he thought about it. It just feels like… like a sad thing that happened to him once. A long time ago, somewhere far from here. 

The Oilers score — Draisaitl, not Connor — and the Avs score their own a minute later. Dylan doesn’t properly know any of the guys on the ice for the Avs now, but he recognises Landeskog from EJ’s stories, smiles to see him yelling his way through the celly hug. EJ will be happy about that, he thinks; as prickly as he acts about it, he always likes seeing his friends do well.

Dylan sees number six vault the boards for the Avs and sits up a little straighter to watch Erik. He’s _good_ \- even after all this time Dylan can see when someone’s good. Then Dylan sees a blue and orange figure blur past Erik, and realises with a start that Erik and Connor are out at the same time. 

At first he thinks maybe they won't really get near each other, they’ll end up on opposite sides or something and won’t actually cross paths. A moment later he realises how stupid this is — Connor’s a centre and gunning for a goal to put them in the lead, and Erik’s a defenceman. It takes barely twenty seconds for them to come together, slamming into the boards at the same time as they fight for a puck, sticks chipping around at their ankles. 

Dylan’s breathing heavily watching them, eyes wide. He’s sat all the way forward on the couch, he realises, trying to see them as close as he can. That’s why he sees it as soon as it happens — Erik’s yelling something, and Connor’s yelling back, and next thing Dylan knows two pairs of gloves are flying and Erik has one hand fisted in the front of Connor’s jersey, the other struggling to land a punch as Connor squirms and tries to hit back.

It only lasts a few seconds, neither of them even really landing a proper hit, but Dylan looks at Erik being herded towards the penalty box and feels a vicious glow of pride. Erik’s carrying his helmet and skating backwards, grinning at Connor over the ref’s shoulder and yelling something that’s probably obscene, and Dylan sees blood on his teeth — a fist must have connected somewhere, then. He looks victorious, triumphant. Dylan adores him in that moment, so much that it feels too big for his heart to hold.

The camera zooms in on Connor, scowling as he steps into his own penalty box, helmet askew, a bruise already forming around his left eye. Dylan grins and settles back to watch the rest of the game.

\---

When EJ lets himself into the apartment, it’s almost three in the morning — their flight from Edmonton had been late to start with and then got delayed with the snow, and EJ feels dead on his feet. He’s covered in bruises, and his jaw still feels tender where that brat McDavid got a hit in, although God knows it was worth the satisfaction to punch him right in his stupid face. The apartment is dark and silent, but when EJ stumbles his way to bed, he finds Dylan curled up, head on EJ’s pillow, wearing an old Avs #6 shirt and snoring softly. It makes EJ feel warm to the tips of his fingers, looking at Dylan in his space, soft and welcoming and beautiful.

He brushes his teeth in the dark so the bathroom light doesn’t wake Dylan, then shrugs off his clothes and slides in next to Dylan in just his boxers. He wraps an arm around Dylan’s waist and presses close. Dylan stirs, just a little, and murmurs sleeply, “Wha’ time’s it?”

“It’s late," EJ whispers. "Flight got delayed. Go back to sleep.” 

Dylan makes a soft noise of assent and snuggles back into EJ’s arms. EJ thinks he’s asleep again, and is almost asleep himself, when he hears softly, “Thanks f’r hittin’ him.” 

EJ smiles into Dylan's hair. 

\---

When Dylan wakes up the next morning, Erik is a long line of heat against his back, snoring softly against Dylan’s ear. Dylan smiles, then squirms his way out and pads to the kitchen to make coffee. 

When he checks the time, he realises it’s still early — too early for Erik to wake up for hours yet, probably. He makes himself a coffee, takes it into the living room so he can drink it looking out over Denver down below them, looking soft and still in the weak wintry light. It’s plenty warm enough in the apartment but looking outside makes Dylan feel cold; everything’s covered in a layer of snow, and the sky is that pale grey that promises more snowfall before long. He shivers a little, reaches for the hoodie he’d flung over one of the living room armchairs a while ago. 

He shrugs it on, then pauses. He thinks, suddenly, how many of his things are here. His hoodie is one thing, but there’s several pairs of his shoes by the door, a toothbrush for him in the cup holder in the bathroom, his favourite cookies in the pantry, a bunch of his notes for class spread out over the huge office desk that Erik never uses. His books on the end table, his coat on the coat rack, his favourite kind of coffee next to the coffee machine. 

It’s started to feel -- like home, he thinks. He feels suddenly frantic, thinking about it. He’s started thinking of here as being his home — started thinking of _Erik_ as his home. What the hell is he doing? 

His hands are shaking, and he puts his coffee mug down before he drops it, paces along the wall of windows. What does he think is happening here, he wonders. Does he think this is some kind of _love story_? Erik _pays him_, for fuck’s sake. Pays him for dates, pays him to come out and hang over here, _pays him for sex_. This is — this is a _business transaction_. 

He feels sick. He thinks of Erik's face softening in the lamplight in the bedroom, Erik laughing loud and raucous on the couch beside him, Erik sending him expensive books for Christmas, Erik punching Connor McDavid in the face. He thinks of all the things he promised himself he wouldn’t let himself want again, after Connor. He thinks of the desperate feeling of loving someone who won’t acknowledge you if anyone else can see, of how it felt to think he had everything he wanted and watch it all run through his fingers like water. 

Then he goes to the closet, finds a duffel bag, and starts packing.

\---

When EJ wakes, it's to the sound of someone quietly shutting his bedroom door. He sits up in bed, confused, and glances at his phone; surely it’s not late enough that Dylan has to leave for class? But Dylan’s not in the bed, and his phone is missing from his nightstand. His charger too, EJ notices; and then he keeps noticing. Dylan’s scarf is missing from the hook on the back of the door where he always puts it; Dylan’s drawer in the dresser is open and empty. EJ has the sudden, terrifying feeling that something is very, very wrong.

He stumbles out of bed and down the hall, where he finds Dylan in the middle of the living room, shoving his books from the end table into an already-bulging duffle bag. 

“Dylan?" EJ says, scared. "Dylan, what’s going on?”

Dylan looks up at him, and he looks awful — more scared and more sad than EJ’s ever seen him, even the night he told EJ about Connor. EJ moves toward him instinctively, arms out to hold him — and then stops abruptly when Dylan shrinks back from him. 

“I can't do this any more," Dylan says. 

He sounds wrecked, voice cracking on the last word, and he turns away to scrub a hand viciously over his eyes and keep picking up the books. 

EJ feels like he's been hit, like he's gone into the boards at the wrong angle and had all the air knocked out of him. “What?” he whispers. 

Dylan’s got his back to EJ now, but his voice shakes when he says, “I can’t — I can’t do this. I can’t _be_ this anymore.” 

It’s like someone's reached inside EJ and hollowed him out. He feels desperate, frantic, feels his own heart clawing at his insides. “Dylan, I don’t understand. Can’t we — can we talk about this, maybe? Please? _Please_, Dylan, I don’t understand—“ 

Dylan turns back to him, suddenly angry. “I can’t let this happen again!” he half-yells. It seems he startles himself as well as EJ, because he carries on, quieter, “I did this with Connor, you know? I can’t do it again. I _can’t_”

“Do what?" EJ says, voice like gravel. “Dylan, come on, you have to know, I’d _never_ treat you like he did—“ 

“It’s the _same!_" Dylan shouts at him. “It’s the same thing! I thought, you know, at least this time I’d know what I was getting myself into! I’d _know_ this would never be anything, and I’d know what I was getting out of it, and it would all be _fine_, except you just had to—“ 

“What? What did I do? Dylan, _please_—“ EJ’s reaching out a hand to him, fingers clenching and unclenching, like he’s trying to grab onto him, grab this moment that seems to have tumbled away from him, hold him close where he belongs. “Let me fix it! Let me fix whatever I did, come on, you can’t just — walk out of here —“ 

“_You made me love you!_" Dylan screams. Tears spill over and slide down his cheeks.

EJ feels like he's been slapped. "What?” he whispers, very quietly. 

“You _heard me_," Dylan sobs. "I know what this is, okay? I know we’ll never be anything real, I know this is a goddamn — business deal, okay? I know how it works! And I fucking went and fell for you anyway!”

“Dylan," EJ says, and it feels like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest, push its way all across the room to this ridiculous perfect boy who already owns it anyway. “Dylan, you have to know I feel the same.” 

Dylan looks up at him, and for a second, he looks hopeful; then something slams shut behind his eyes. “But Erik, it doesn’t matter,” he says brokenly. “I can’t be someone’s dirty little secret again. I can’t — I can’t do it again.” 

EJ laughs, and it comes out broken, bitter. “Dylan, do you think I give a shit?” he says fiercely. “Have you _met_ me? Do you know what the team says about me already, the things they think I get up to? They’re my friends, and they’ll support me, and if they don’t then I don’t give a flying fuck what they have to say.” 

Dylan’s already shaking his head. "I can’t ask for that.” 

“Dylan." EJ crosses the room to him, crowds into his space, lays his hands gently on Dylan’s face when Dylan doesn’t push him away. “Dylan, let me show you. Okay? Let me prove it to you.” 

Dylan’s shaking his head. "I can't ask you to come out for me. It’s not fair! It’s not!”

EJ leans forward so his forehead rests against Dylan’s, and admits quietly, “I’ve been thinking about doing it anyway.” 

Dylan’s eyes widen, and he looks, for the first time, genuinely shocked by something in this conversation. “What?”

EJ draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Since I met you, I — it’s seemed more and more stupid, that I never let myself imagine having any of this, that I thought it was a choice between hockey or love. I’m so sick of putting my whole life on hold for hockey.” EJ shakes his head, rueful. “I hate being afraid. I _hate_ it. I was so afraid of something terrible happening if someone found out, but I’m so _fucking tired_ of being afraid. What can they even do to me? I don’t _care_, Dylan! It’s worth it!” 

Dylan looks up, finally, finally, and meets his eyes. He looks — hopeful, and something in EJ rises up to meet that hope. “Do you mean it?” Dylan says cautiously. 

EJ holds him, so gently, like he's a wild animal that might spook, and presses the softest open-mouthed kiss to his lips. “Let me prove it to you,” he says. “Let me prove it to you, right the fuck now, if that’s what it takes to keep you here with me.” 

“How?” Dylan says, but EJ's already fumbling in the pocket of his sweats for his phone. He taps at it for a few moments, then holds it up to show Dylan.

**New group message to Gabriel Landeskog, Nathan MacKinnon, Samuel Girard, Cale Makar, JT Compher, Tyson Jost**  
_ me: _are you guys free for lunch today? got someone important I want you to meet__

__

__

EJ sees Dylan's eyes scan it, once and then a second and third time, like he can’t understand what he’s seeing. Then he raises his eyes to meet EJ’s, slowly and hopefully, and the very beginning of a smile starts to rise at the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” 

He leans in, then, and kisses EJ, and EJ wraps his arms around this perfect, perfect man and vows to never let go.

\---

By the time they get to the place they’ve agreed to meet the guys for lunch, Dylan’s so nervous he thinks he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin. A part of him still can’t believe he’s actually here, they’re actually doing this; it feels like some sort of fever dream, like he’s going to wake up tomorrow and find none of this really happened. It seems impossible; but then there’s Erik, sliding into the booth next to him, taking off his ridiculous douchey sunglasses to hook them into the front of his shirt, squeezing Dylan’s hand under the table as he reaches for a menu. 

They came early, because Dylan wanted them to be already here when the others arrived so he couldn’t chicken out, but they’re only sitting a couple of minutes before someone slides into the seat across from them. When Dylan looks up, there’s _Gabriel Landeskog_, perfect hair and all, looking back at Dylan with one eyebrow raised. 

“Um, hi," Dylan says, and his voice comes out too high-pitched like it always does when he’s nervous; he ducks his head, feeling his face burn. Erik, because he’s Erik, snorts, but doesn’t let go of Dylan’s hand. 

“Nice to meet you," Gabe says politely. Dylan smiles weakly back at him. “Hello, EJ,” Gabe continues, and Dylan feels Erik jolt next to him as Gabe kicks him under the table.

Erik scowls over at him. "Hi, asshole,” he says. “Can you not be civil in this nice establishment?” 

Gabe opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted by a whole group of large men crowding into the booth next to him, calling greetings and pushing at each other. It’s one of those round booths, so they end up pushing Gabe along and all the way around until he’s sitting next to Dylan, and Dylan feels Gabe’s assessing eyes on him and stares at his menu like he’s trying to burn a hole right through it. 

Opposite, two of the guys have grabbed a menu and are bickering over it - Dylan remembers his frantic googling of team pictures this morning and guesses they’re Jost and Compher - but the rest are looking curiously in Dylan’s direction. Dylan just stares harder at the menu and contemplates whether he’d like to just die right now, actually, rather than have to do any of this.

Next to him, Erik clears his throat officiously. “Boys, I have an announcement,” he says, and everyone slowly goes quiet, looking at Erik. They mostly just look confused and curious, but there’s something sharper in Gabe’s eyes, and someone else across the table is looking at Erik with a tiny satisfied smile on his face — Dylan realises with a jolt that it’s _Nate MacKinnon_, and oh god, how did he get here, how is he at a table with all of these very famous hockey players, what is life.

“Hurry up, then, I want fries," says Jost, and Compher next to him smacks him on the shoulder. 

“This," Erik says, as if they hadn't spoken, “is Dylan.” He waves the hand that isn’t already holding Dylan’s in his direction, and all the eyes that weren’t already on Dylan land on him. Dylan feels himself blush harder. 

“Hi, Dylan," Nate says warmly. "Nice to meet you. Are you why EJ never comes to movie night anymore?” 

Erik makes a loud squawk of outrage next to him, but Dylan laughs. “Um, probably,” he says, and risks a smile in Nate’s direction. Nate smiles back at him, looking entirely unsurprised, and Dylan wonders for a moment about Erik’s certainty that nobody on his team knows anything about him. 

“Dylan," Erik says loudly, as if Nate hadn’t spoken, “is my boyfriend.” 

There’s a second of stunned silence from everyone else, but Nate just smiles bigger and says in this smug little voice, “About time.” Next to Dylan, Gabe’s also looking pretty happy with himself, and he leans in close to Dylan to whisper, “Sorry about the fish faces. They’ll be happy for you in a sec.” 

When Dylan glances around the rest of the table, he has to laugh, because several of them really are doing their best impression of a fish, mouths opening and closing without managing to actually make any words come out. “Thanks,” he murmurs to Gabe. “But you… don’t seem surprised?”

Gabe smiles, and oh, okay, Dylan can see why all those people think he’s so beautiful. It’s kind of stunning, actually, like being hit over the head with a brick. A brick of… hotness. It also apparently makes it hard to think. 

“I had my suspicions about EJ here for quite some time,” Gabe says louder, and reaches around Dylan to scrub at Erik’s hair; Erik says, “you did _not!_“ indignantly and squirms out from under him, trying to reach to slap him over Dylan’s head. 

Dylan ducks, laughing, and catches JT Compher’s eye from across the table. He still looks a bit like he’s been run over by a truck, but he’s smiling at Dylan now. “Nice to meet you, man, I’m JT,” he says, and actually reaches over to shake Dylan’s hand. Dylan watches as he digs his other elbow sharply into Jost’s ribs, and Jost seems to wake up from his trance and shakes Dylan’s hand too. “I’m Tyson,” he says, “it’s real good to meet you.” 

They go around the table like that, eventually, and Dylan gets officially introduced to Nate, Tyson, JT, Sam, and Cale — the latter of whom is starting to flush a deep red as they shake hands, and throwing glances at Erik that look half scared and half longing; Dylan files that away to think about later. They’re all friendly, tell Dylan stupid stories about Erik until his sides ache from laughing, ask him nice questions about what he’s studying and where he grew up. 

“So how'd you meet EJ?" Nate says finally, when they’re almost finished their food and JT and Tyson have devolved to having some sort of french fry sword fight. Nate carefully slides himself a little further away from them as he talks.

Dylan chokes on his Coke, coughing, and looks up at Erik in a panic. But Erik just shrugs and says, “It was kinda fate, I guess.” 

Dylan smiles down into his glass, squeezes Erik’s hand hard under the table. Fate, he thinks. Sounds about right.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah man I dunno
> 
> I have 700 deleted scenes I couldn't shoehorn in to this so if you're curious hit me up 
> 
> may have to write a redemption fic sequel for Connor, who I actually love very much and never intended to do as dirty as I did in this fic, sorry Davo
> 
> also yes, Cale IS gay and in the closet and suddenly thinking maybe he can have hockey AND love. thank you for noticing
> 
> also EJ used his best friends' numbers in his sugar daddy website handle, thanks Nate and Gabe for your unknowing support of the gay agenda

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Thought I knew what I wanted, I never saw you comin'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265154) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)


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